


Warn Your Warmth

by trespresh



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Blood, Burns, Community: rotg_kink, Gen, I don't know, Kink Meme, M/M, Pain, Prompt Fill, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/pseuds/trespresh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Two long, thin scratches sit stark against his pale skin, narrow trickles of crimson blood trailing down into his trousers. Jack jerks his head up to stare at North again, whose eyes are wide and focused on the scratches.</i><br/> </p><p>(Or, the one where Pitch steals Jack's staff and slowly, tortuously, destroys it and, by extension, Jack; everything that happens to the staff also happens to Jack.)</p><p>~A fill for the RotG kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a fill for [this prompt](http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2200.html?thread=1841304#cmt1841304) in the kink meme. This is set after the Antarctica scene, and I took a lot of liberties, I know. I didn't try too hard for continuity with little details the movie, oops. Just assume the storyline is pretty much the same up until that Jack vs. Pitch scene.
> 
> I own nothing, unfortunately. Title belongs to AFI.
> 
> Why do I always insist on torturing the characters I love so much? Ugh. I'm not even sorry for this, though.

It starts with scratches. Long, thin red lines that cut down the center of his chest.

He first feels it about an hour after Pitch steals his staff (as if the horrible emptiness that balloons in his stomach isn’t enough, as if the jilted feeling like he’s lost something every time he makes a fist and the staff isn’t there in his grip— _a phantom limb_ —that makes him feel lopsided doesn’t cause him enough pain).

He’s at the Pole, pacing in North’s study as he talks to the other Guardian, asking _what am I supposed to do_ and _why did Pitch take it_ , and panicking, saying, _it hurts_ and _I’ve never felt this weak before_ and _all of my power is centered in that staff, North!_

The pain he feels, the building, indescribable incorrectness that wells inside him is intangible, untreatable.

And then a sharp, pricking fire on the skin of his abdomen. He stops in the middle of his pacing, crying out more in shock than actual pain, and looks up at North with wide eyes.

“What? What is problem?” North asks, and Jack shakes his head and clutches at his stomach as another sharp twinge starts.

He yanks up his sweatshirt.

Blood.

Two long, thin scratches sit stark against his pale skin, narrow trickles of crimson blood trailing down into his trousers. Jack jerks his head up to stare at North again, whose eyes are wide and focused on the scratches.

He’s just about to gasp, “What’s going on?!” when a third bead of blood forms just under his ribs. The two Guardians watch in horror as the new scratch appears from nowhere, and Jack can really _feel_ this one— _it’s deeper, oh god, it’s deeper_ —can feel it like a phantom knife carving him. It’s as though the pain is tortuously slow, magnified; Jack can feel every centimeter of his skin tearing, and he chokes on a harsh inhale, breath hitching but he can’t make a sound. The scratch trails down, down, until it disappears into his pants and—Jack can feel it carving down his leg until it stops just above his knee. Red seeps through the fabric of his pants in a thin, neat line.

Jack grasps at his stomach, gasping in quick little heaves, just waiting for the next scratch to start. Blood trickles through his fingers and then North is next to him, pushing his hands away and pressing a pure, snow white handkerchief to the bloodied skin.

“North…” Jack hisses, “ _it hurts_.”

The handkerchief comes away stark white, unstained. The blood still drips down Jack’s abdomen undisturbed.

Jack grabs the handkerchief from North, rubbing at his skin, but the blood won’t clean up, won’t wipe away. He’s panicking now ( _what is going on how is this happening why does this hurt so much where is my staff_ ), scraping at the blood desperately, but it’s no use. The blood can’t be cleaned.

He clamps his eyes shut and doubles over, screaming as a fourth line carves into his skin, deeper still than the others.

“ _Shit_ ,” he spits, voice breathy and labored as he wraps his arms tighter around himself, a pathetic attempt to hold himself together. He can feel the blood sinking through his sleeves, ice cold and weighing down his sweatshirt, and he drops to his knees as the scratch finally stops. He pulls his arms away to see a long, angry gash down the center of his abdomen—a harsh line connecting the center of his sternum to his bellybutton—blood oozing steadily, painting his white skin crimson.

“I make a call to others,” North says, quick and almost as panicked as Jack feels, and he hurries from the room, barking orders to the elves and yetis as he goes.

Jack yelps and whimpers to no one ( _make it stop please make it stop_ ) when yet another gash cuts into his skin, curving out from the top of the fourth laceration, and he bends his head to watch through agonized eyes as his skin opens up, pain caused by an unseen hand. He growls through gritted teeth, fists clenching against his thighs, back arching without his permission. The pain is sharp, fierce, smart like a whip and slicing him with the angered sadism of an invisible force.

Finally it stops and Jack falls forward, hands braced against the floor as his chest heaves, breathing through the remnants of the pain.

After a moment he pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly, woozy like his legs won’t be enough to support him, like he’s got nothing to lean on. He stumbles to the window of North’s study and stares at the reflection in the glass.

Furious red lines mar his flawless skin, vertical gashes half hidden by icy blood, and right in the center, most prominent of all—

_P._

~~

“I’m okay, Tooth, I swear,” Jack says, but he lets her duck under his arm and help him walk to a chair anyway.

He settles into the chair, mindful of the scrapes on his stomach and chest. The wounds had stopped bleeding soon after they were made, but the blood still refused to be cleaned away. He lays a hand gently, absently, over his stomach, and forces a smile when Baby Tooth flits over and nestles into the crook of his neck, tittering comfortingly.

“All right, mate?” Jack looks up to see Bunny standing in the doorway; the furred Guardian steps into the room to perch beside North, and Jack presses his lips together and nods. “Tell us again what happened.”

Jack meets North’s pensive eyes before sighing, “I was just talking to North—about my staff. We were trying to figure out how to get it back, and—”

“Where _is_ your staff, Jack?” Tooth asks, looking around as though she’d just noticed it was missing.

Jack winces, feels the resounding ache of emptiness in the center of his chest. “Pitch has it.” Even just verbally acknowledging its absence makes his head spin.

For almost 300 years, that staff had been an additional appendage, a literal extension of Jack and his power, his namesake. And now it’s _gone_ , in the hands of the King of Nightmares, held hostage by a dark spirit with more than enough reason to loathe Jack.

He shivers.

“Yeah,” Bunny says, uncharacteristically gentle. “North told us.”

North straightens up when Jack turns helpless eyes on him. “What we need to know,” he says, “is _how_ Pitch stole staff.”

Jack clenches his jaw, stares down at the floor and remembers a world of ice. He sees a tall, dark figure, stark against the whiteness of the snow in his mind’s eye, sees the gleam of vindictiveness in Pitch’s eye as he holds up Baby Tooth. He still hears her echoing squeaks if he listens hard enough, even though Baby Tooth is here, a grounding, tiny pressure on his neck.

_“The staff, Jack.”_

He can still feel the ache in his fingers as he flips the staff in his hand, surrenders it and, essentially, his power to Pitch, who smiles and only grips the tiny fairy tighter. He remembers Pitch tossing Baby Tooth carelessly after she needles her beak into his hand, and he hears Pitch’s yelp of pain.

_“You’re mine, now, Jack.”_

The mirth in Pitch’s voice grates on Jack’s eardrums, even now, as he remembers Pitch’s terrifying, promising grin, and then Pitch disappears, taking with him Jack’s staff.

Just like that, Jack is staring at the floor in North’s workshop again. He doesn’t realize he’d voiced his memories until he looks up and meets three pairs of troubled eyes.

“Jack…” Tooth starts, her voice wavering, eyes wide and much too sympathetic for Jack’s liking. He doesn’t much want sympathy from them; it didn’t help kids believe in him and it certainly won’t help him get his staff back.

He forces a smile anyway, though it doesn’t reach his eyes and he’s sure Tooth isn’t convinced. Baby Tooth coos against his neck, squeaking, like, _you don’t fool us, Jack,_ or maybe _we’re here for you._

“I have theory,” North starts, slow and careful like he’s picking every word with caution. “Pitch stole your staff, yes? He knows your power is channeled in it. I think,” he takes a deep breath and Jack thinks the look in his eyes might be worry, or—anger? “I think he is damaging staff. Carving it. He knows that hurting staff hurts Jack.”

Jack, for his part, just stares. A flash of red is all he sees until suddenly he’s furious, because _it makes sense_. Of course Pitch is destroying the staff; Jack had turned down his offer, mocked his proposal for partnership, thrown his desire to no longer be alone right back into his face.

A flash of the scenario if it were switched invades Jack’s thoughts. What if he had been in Pitch’s position (as if he _hadn’t_ been for the last 300 years, Christ), and the one being that he’d thought could cure his loneliness had essentially _laughed in his face_?

Well, okay. Jack would be doing the same thing. He’d want to make sure that being would feel every bit of pain he had.

He just doesn’t know when—or if—Pitch will ever stop.

He flexes his fingers out of the fist he hadn’t realized he’d been making. “Don’t worry about me, guys. I’ll just—” He swallows, cuts himself off because, okay, he really doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Bunny shuffles closer, stooping down in front of Jack with determined eyes, and his paw shoots out to knock Jack’s hands away from his stomach and yank his sweatshirt up.

“Bloody hell,” Bunny curses lowly, and Tooth doesn’t quite manage to bite down her gasp.

His abdomen somehow manages to look worse than it had just half an hour ago, the skin angry and red and raised around the gashes. The blood is still there, hardened into ice and stuck firmly to his skin despite the pained scrubbing Jack had done.

Jack wrestles his sweatshirt back down, casting a sidelong glance at Tooth (her eyes are wider than ever and set unseeing off to the side, her delicate hands clasped over her mouth) before looking up and meeting Bunny’s gaze.

“Like hell we’re not going to worry about you, Frostbite,” Bunny says angrily, and Jack doesn’t smile at the fondness hidden deep under the layers of fury in Bunny’s voice. Jack doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t say _I’m scared_ or _please help me_ or even _thank you_ like he really wants to. He says nothing, and Bunny straightens to his full height, chest puffing out as he stalks out of the room, muttering to North as the bearded Guardian follows him. Jack thinks he hears Bunny mutter something along the lines of, _“I’ll kill the bastard, y’hear me? Pitch doesn’t deserve to live,”_ but he can’t be sure.

It’s just Tooth, Baby Tooth, and him now, and Jack jerks his gaze back to her when both of her tiny hands wrap around one of his. “You’re one of us now, Jack. You’re family,” she says, and there’s a tremor to her voice that Jack chooses to politely ignore. “We watch out for our family, okay? We take care of our own.”

She flits into the air then, hovering for a moment as her eyes dart to the door through which Bunny and North just left. Then, quick enough to make Jack question whether it’d actually happened, she leans in to press a kiss to his icy cheek.

“We’ll get it back.”

And then she’s gone, through the door, leaving Jack to his thoughts and Baby Tooth’s gentle nuzzling against his neck and the excruciating, blinding pain of the sixth, seventh— _eigthninthtentheleventh_ —gashes that begin carving down his sides.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He barely notices when his hoodie is pulled up and over his head, and he’s dry heaving through the echoes of pain, the throbbing along his spine, but he hears the collectively horrified gasp from his fellow Guardians._
> 
> _“His skin—” North starts, voice low and dripping with morbid curiosity, “It is just… **gone **.”****_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of my fill for [this prompt](http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2200.html?thread=1841304#cmt1841304) in the kink meme. Enjoy~!

Jack’s more touched than he cares to admit when North insists he stay in one of the spare bedrooms at the Pole where they can keep watch over him. He’s oddly grateful that Tooth and Bunny choose to stay at the Pole as well.

 _They’re too good to him,_ he thinks. _Even now, even after he wasn’t there for them during the Nightmares’ attack on the Easter eggs._

It’s a reassuring, coiling thought that sits heavy on his chest, and he files it away for later as he pulls his sweatshirt over his head and lies back on the bed in his temporary bedroom. He tries to make himself as comfortable as possible, learning quickly that resting his hands behind his head is out of the question, the motion pulling his stomach and wounds taut and forcing a gasp of pain past his lips.

For a bit, while he’s getting settled, his room is busy with foot traffic: North consistently checking in, demanding to know whether he’s comfortable, how he’s feeling, would he like anything?; Bunny hovering awkwardly in the doorway, offering apologies because _I never should’ve said the things I did, mate,_ and, _of course I know we can trust you,_ and Jack doesn’t let on how much his heart swells at the accented Guardian’s acceptance; and Tooth, fluttering nervously around the room, close to the ceiling like she’s not sure how close she really wants to get to Jack’s shirtless—and quite bloodied—form on the bed, before realizing _hello, this is Jack,_ and settling gently next to him.

Tooth talks to him, tells him about the inner workings of Tooth Palace, explains to him with bright eyes all the wonderful things she’s seen of the world while out in the field, and Jack finds himself listening more to the soft, distractingly reassuring lilt of her voice than her actual words. He almost forgets the throbbing of his gashes until he laughs too hard at one of her stories, and promptly yelps and drops his arms around his own waist, eyes clenched closed while Tooth rushes out of the room in search of help that won’t be found.

Not long after that, six or seven Baby Teeth settle around him on the bed, one curling gently into the crook of his hip, another burrowing under his hand until he strokes her head with a tentative finger, the rest nestling against his shoulders and neck, nuzzling his hair comfortingly. He talks quietly to them, some nonsensical things, some memories he’d only recently recovered in Antarctica with Baby Tooth. They titter back to him and it surprises Jack how quickly he grows accustomed to the feeling of being wanted, loved.

He’s just beginning to grow tired when the elves totter into the room, carrying ornate bowls full of ice and snow (and Jack refuses to admit that it _aches_ that he couldn’t have conjured the coolness on his own). He thanks them and reaches for a handful of ice; it feels strange in his hand—too cold? It stings just a little in his grasp, worsens the pain instead of easing it when he tries to set the ice against the wounds on his chest and stomach.

The unforgiving pang that pushes against his ribcage is, he realizes, _fear_. He’s terrified if only because snow and ice have _never_ done him wrong before.

He puts the ice back into the bowls, shaking his head.

The elves come back a few minutes later with a soothing salve that helps a little, and he finally falls asleep to the soft chirps of the sleeping fairies surrounding him.

~~

He’s padding slowly through the halls of North’s huge workshop, the silence around him deafening in his ears. The walls on either side of him are blurred, narrow, forcing him to carry on forward, on and on until he finally ends up in the center of the main toy room.

It’s empty. He doesn’t think it’s ever been this quiet here.

He’s got his foot out to take a step further into the room when the floor opens up beneath him and he falls weightlessly through one of Bunny’s holes.

His world changes then, melts into dark, swirling gray shapes and he’s lying on a table, stock still and unable to move. He’s staring straight ahead at Pitch, who’s sitting at a table opposite him. On the tabletop is a single knife, glinting in the dim light and flecked with tiny wooden splinters and frozen blood.

Pitch leans back in his chair enough for Jack to see that he’s got another, longer knife in his hand, and he drags the blade along the length of a sharpening stone, slow and screeching and _horrible_ , before looking over at Jack.

_“I may not have your respect, Jack, but I **will** have your fear, your pain. You are mine, now.”_

~~

Jack wakes up screaming and the Baby Teeth jolt awake to flitter nervously around his head.

His bare chest heaves, his eyes wide, and he looks around the empty, dark room with jerky wavers of his head.

He’s unsure whether he’d only had a nightmare or if he’d really been in Pitch’s lair. He shivers and, with a last, sweeping glance over the room, lays back against the pillows again; the fairies make themselves comfortable around him once more. He distracts himself back to sleep by concentrating on his exhales, trying desperately to breathe ice, but all that comes out are tiny wisps of frost that die on the air.

He falls asleep without noticing the shadows on the walls, dancing in the moonlight streaming through the window.

~~

“I dreamt about Pitch last night,” Jack says, and three pairs of eyes turn on him, one violet, one blue, one green. Jack tries to look nonchalant, unbothered, but his frown is too deep, shoulders too hunched, and he knows they don’t buy it.

“What happened?” Bunny asks.

“He was sharpening a knife. I was…I was in his lair, watching while he did it, and he said—he said,” Jack furrows his eyebrows and wonders why he didn’t just keep his mouth shut, because fuck all if he wants to actually _say it out loud_. He swallows. “He said he wants my fear and pain. Or something.”

There’s silence for a moment before Tooth speaks up, her voice soft and careful like she’s afraid of spooking Jack. “Did he say anything else?”

 _“You are mine, now.”_  
  
He just barely manages to hide his shudder and shakes his head, no.

It’s then that he feels it, the agonizing slicing feeling down his spine, far more intense and concentrated than the scratches on his stomach, that forces him to drop to his knees, back arching in like that’ll ease the pain.

He closes his eyes and screams through gritted teeth, forehead pressing into the wooden floor. He doesn’t see three pairs of anxious feet closing around him, doesn’t hear panicked voices calling to him ( _what’s wrong Jack, where does it hurt, is that—blood?_ ).

With his forehead to the floor and the pain being on his back, Jack can’t see the pool of blood seeping through his sweatshirt down the length of his spine.

He barely notices when his hoodie is pulled up and over his head, and he’s dry heaving through the echoes of pain, the throbbing along his spine, but he hears the collectively horrified gasp from his fellow Guardians.

“His skin—” North starts, voice low and dripping with morbid curiosity, “It is just… _gone_.”

Jack doesn’t have time to wonder what that even _means_ when that same body-numbing pain cuts into his left forearm. He lays his arm out flat against the floor and turns his head to the side just in time to watch as a section of pale skin (maybe an inch wide, six inches long, but Jack’s not exactly about to whip out a ruler and _measure_ ) peels back like it’s being sliced cleanly off by a nonexistent surgical knife. Blood wells up and gushes free, staining the wooden floor, and Jack whimpers and chokes and screams because he can’t bring himself to do anything else, can’t even take his eyes off the way the skin curls back to reveal harsh pink and rivers of red.

He dry heaves again, stomach churning painfully until he feels like he might throw up everything he’s ever eaten; his head spins, dizzy with agony and confusion.

The blood is already starting to freeze on his arm (and he can’t even _imagine_ what his back must look like) when the pain transfers over to his right forearm, the skin slicing free from his body in a thick clump, the wound exactly parallel to the one on his left forearm.

It hurts, _holy fuck_ , does it hurt. He can’t think of any better description in his mind for what this feels like, so he yelps unintelligibly instead as the blood flows from the third open wound, sobs through his dry retching and tries not to move because that only makes the pain worse.

“Help me,” he manages to whimper, “ _please_.”

_It’s too much, he can’t handle this, no more—please no more—_

He feels furry, solid arms picking him up just before he passes out.

~~

When he wakes up, it’s to blurred vision and distant voices.

“Don’t know how much this’ll help, mate,” he hears Bunny’s voice say, and it’s like he’s hearing the rabbit through a long tunnel, “but we’re giving you painkillers, yeah?”

Jack groans weakly and his head flops uselessly against his pillow. He’s lying strangely on the bed, hoisted up slightly, and he wants to sob his thanks to the Guardians for not putting him on his back—or stomach, for that matter.

Everything hurts. The pain has seeped down into his bones, it feels like, and his limbs are heavy and his head is spinning with the lingering scent of his own blood. He can feel the tight gauze wrapped around his arms, up the entire length of his torso. Everything just _hurts_.

A large, red blob floats into his distorted vision later—could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours, for all Jack knows—and he hears North’s voice.

He says, “We will not leave your side, Jack.” Says, “Pitch is not hiding out in normal lair,” and, “We are doing all we can.”

Jack can’t even fill his lungs up enough to say thank you.

He hears Tooth’s voice, too, but can’t make out her words; she leans in close enough, sometimes, that he can see the brilliant violet of her eyes.

He passes out again, soon after.

~~

When he wakes up again, he feels numb, but better. He opens his eyes and he can see straight, though his head aches still.

“Guys,” he rasps, mouth dry, and Tooth, North, and Bunny all halt in their hushed conversation across the room.

“Jack!” Tooth exclaims, flying over and patting his hand. “You had us scared.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies, for lack of a better response.

There’s a tense, heavy silence that only comes when no one knows what to say, how to make things better.

It’s Bunny that finally breaks the silence. “We’re searching for him.” Jack looks at him, sees the way the fur on his paws, arms, and chest is matted with blood.

 _Jack’s blood._  
  
Jack feels the inexplicable need to apologize again, but he holds his tongue and meets Bunny’s eyes.

“Thing is,” Bunny continues, voice defeated just a little, “when Pitch doesn’t _want_ to be found, he won’t be.”

Jack nods his head and bites down the icy twinge of terror that scratches his skin.

“We keep looking, though. We will find him and retrieve your staff,” North asserts, a crescendo in his voice like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Jack.

His back and arms throb, and Jack can only hope North is right.

~~

He visits the shadows in his dreams again that night, only this time, instead of sharpening a knife, Pitch is stoking a fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having too much fun writing this, so I hope you're all enjoying it as much as I am! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He can’t open his mouth without another scream falling heavily off his tongue. All he feels is fire, curling and twisting and forcing its way through his insides, invading every cell. He can’t help but imagine that every bone in his body, every fiber and piece of tissue is set ablaze, burningburningburning until all that’s left is ash._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third installment of my fill for [this prompt](http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2200.html?thread=1841304#cmt1841304) in the kink meme. Hope you all dig it!

In his 300 years of invisibility, Jack had heard things. He’d heard the whispered conversations, the grunts and moans of lovers; he’d heard the heartbreak and sobs and sorrow during the world’s hard times, and the promises made with fingers crossed behind backs.

Most of all, he’d heard the children—their laughter, their tears and sniffles when they’d scrape their knees, their whoops of celebration after looking out their windows to see huge piles of snow (those were his particular favorite). He’d heard their stories.  
There was one story he’d heard that had stuck with him, puzzled him.

It had been from a young boy, maybe eight or nine, excitedly telling his friends about his parents’ new hot tub (of all stories).

_“It was great!”_ The boy had exclaimed, _“I played in the snow and then jumped into the water right after!”_

Jack distinctly remembers the boy’s face, little eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched as he went on to tell his friends about how, after playing in the icy snow, the hot water in the tub had _burned_. Had been so hot against his skin that it felt like _freezing_.

Jack had never understood that, could never grasp the possibility of hot and cold coming together to switch sensations like that; how could it be possible for heat to freeze, or for ice to burn? How could it be thinkable for that kind of contradictory _pain_ to exist?

(Well. He understands now.)

~~

Jack spends much of the next day quietly confused over his dream.

_Fire? What does that mean? Pitch can’t **literally** set him on fire…can he?_

Ice doesn’t burn, after all.

It’s the waiting for Pitch’s next move that sets him on edge, more so than the dream itself. He walks slowly, aimlessly, around North’s gigantic wooden workshop, his movements and body stiff in attempt to avoid jostling his wounds more than necessary.

His entire body is sore and aching, and he’s angry— _furious_ —at Pitch for doing this to him, and at himself for handing his staff over and giving Pitch the _opportunity_ to do this to him, and at the Moon for setting this whole thing in motion in the first place, and at himself some more for not being strong enough to overcome the pain shooting up his spine and down his arms and all over his chest and just— _everywhere_.

He’s seething and shaking and blue in the face with his version of an angered flush by the time he ambles into North’s personal workshop, where the other three Guardians are gathered.

“Why didn’t you just stay in bed?” Tooth questions innocently as he sinks onto a window ledge with a groan.

“I couldn’t stand it in there, okay?” Jack snaps, and Tooth recoils like she’s been slapped. Jack’s shoulders collapse and the anger dissipates as he looks up at her wounded expression. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry. I just… I’m a little on edge, here.”

Bunny furrows his brow and looks like he’s about so say something disapproving, but he holds his tongue in favor of saying, “Understandable.”

Jack keeps his eyes on his hands where they wring in his lap. “I…I had another dream last night.”

“About what?” North asks.

Jack swallows and closes his eyes, tilts his head up toward the ceiling and exhales. “Fire.”

The responding silence weighs heavy on his ears.

“These dreams, or—or nightmares, I guess,” Jack continues in a loaded voice, “They mean something. Pitch has to be sending them, because the first one came true. The knife—” He chokes off, twisting a little until he feels the sharp twinge from the wound on his back.

More silence, until—

“So you think he’s gunna—what? Set your staff on fire?” Bunny asks, vague disbelief coloring his tone.

Jack nods absently. “That’s exactly what I think. I just—I don’t know what that’ll do to me.”

Tooth’s voice is shaky when she asks, “But he can’t actually set you on…on _fire_. Can he?”

Jack doesn’t answer, just looks up and matches her helpless gaze. His lips flatten into a thin line and he thinks back to his dream—thinks back to the way Pitch’s dark figure stooped over the roaring fire, and how he could feel the heat from the flames even from across the room. He remembers the way the light from the fire threw inky shadows onto the wall, and how those shadows danced and threw their heads back in laughter and pointed gleeful, mocking fingers at him.

He feels the heat on his face and he rubs at his skin in irritation until all he feels is cold, all he sees is the concerned stares of the Guardians around him. He drops his eyes and furrows his brow, grits his teeth, and just like that his anger is back, coursing through his veins in thick, icy torrents. He snorts.

He hates those dreams—those _nightmares_. He hates that Pitch is mocking him, teasing him by showing him exactly what he’s planning on doing to Jack, rubbing it in his face that Jack can’t do a thing to stop him. Jack seethes, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as another thought strikes him: if Jack had been better, stronger, he would’ve been able to save Sandy, would’ve been able to stop Pitch from using Sandy’s power and dream-sand and adapting it for terror, dark purposes. Evil promises. _Sandy_ would’ve been able to stop these dreams. _Sandy_ would know how to stop Pitch.

This is all Jack’s own fault.

He bolts to his feet, ignoring the twinge of agony that sweeps over his injuries. “I should’ve done something more,” he says, more to himself than to the others, but they cut in anyway when he says, “For Sandy.”

“What?” Bunny asks at the same time North warns tiredly, “Jack.”

“No!” He snarls, already pacing the room, hands thrown up wildly and eyes sharp as he looks at the three of them. “This is my fault. If I had stopped Pitch before he took Sandy, none of this would’ve happened.”

“Jack,” North begins carefully, his hands up in front of him, voice gentle like Jack’s a cornered animal ready to lash out. “You cannot keep blaming yourself for Sandy, and you cannot blame yourself for what Pitch is doing. This is _Pitch’s_ fault, not—”

“Mine?” Jack interrupts. The anger is flaring inside of him—building up from all the physical pain, the emotional wounds—curling in his stomach. There’s a warmth twisting in his chest, working heatedly against his ribcage, and Jack rolls with it. “Of course it’s my fault, aren’t you hearing me? _I_ couldn’t stop Pitch from taking Sandy. _I_ was too weak, and _I_ handed my staff over on a silver fucking platter, North!”

Tooth falters from across the room. “You saved Baby Tooth, Jack,” she reminds him quietly, and Jack hesitates because _oh, right_ and _yeah, he would’ve done it the same way if he’d had a do-over_.

But then the angered heat is sparking inside his chest again, and he waves a hand. “That’s not the point,” he barks. “I had to. But I should’ve found another way to stop Pitch. I should’ve—”

He abruptly cuts himself off, then, stumbling back a step and looking down at his chest. The steady warmth that was welling behind his ribs is spreading—it isn’t just warm anymore, it’s growing, heating up, trailing down into his stomach, branching off down each of his legs. It crawls up his sternum, growing hotter and hotter as it licks down his arms, curls over his shoulders and down the length of his back. It burns now, much, _much_ too hot, it’s too much, it scalds his bones, singes every nerve—

Jack lets out an involuntary yelp as he holds his arms out to the side. His skin is turning red— _he’s never seen his skin turn red before_ —and he jumps a little on the spot as the fire teases down the pads of his feet, hot and unbearable and burning until he can’t stand in one place anymore.

He screams, high and bloodcurdling because _he can’t escape it_.

“Jack!”

“What’s going on—”

“Talk to us, Jack—!”

But he can’t. He can’t open his mouth without another scream falling heavily off his tongue. All he feels is fire, curling and twisting and forcing its way through his insides, invading every cell. He can’t help but imagine that every bone in his body, every fiber and piece of tissue is set ablaze, _burningburningburning_ until all that’s left is ash.

There are flames in his eyes, he sees them, sees them dancing in his line of vision when he opens his eyes wide, sees the horrified, glassy violet of Tooth’s own gaze as she looks at him like she can see the flames in his eyes too.

The workshop flickers in front of him then, and he sees flashes of dark, shadowy places for a moment before Tooth and Bunny and North fill his vision once more, flame-free.

Steam is rising off of his skin and he pulls his sweatshirt over his head like that’ll ease the searing pain. He tosses his head back, eyes clenched closed, and he can’t think, can’t speak because instead of the explanations he wants to say, like _it’s the fire_ and _help_ and _it hurts, it hurts—please stop this_ , they all come out as the garbled, choked shrieks of a man being burned alive from the inside, out. Every time he opens his mouth, now, thick, black smoke tumbles out amongst his cries, mingling with the steam that continues to roll off his damp skin.

He doesn’t know how he’s even still standing with the way the fire claws at his feet. If he could think of anything other than the pain, he’d wonder if it were possible for him to just collapse into a pile of ash right here at the Guardians’ feet.

The workshop flashes and the darkness fills his vision once more, only this time Jack can see bright, delighted golden eyes and a wide, victorious, sharp-toothed grin against grey skin before the darkness fades into the wooden workshop again.

He vaguely feels Bunny’s paw on his arm for the briefest moment, hears the rabbit’s howl of pain as he pulls his paw back from Jack’s boiling skin. Jack manages to look down at his arms and stomach for a moment and he sees the way his skin is bubbling just slightly, the raw, red flesh blistering over.

The scream he lets out this time is full-bodied, continuous, and with it comes billows of black, swirling smoke. He can’t stop it—can’t stop screaming or steaming or blistering or crying or shaking or _anything_.

He endures for a few more minutes, body weak and glowing like fading embers, until the fire starts to dim. His yells and choking whines begin to quiet as the heat recedes from his fingertips, from his toes, up his legs and arms. The flames recoil from the far reaches of his limbs, trails back until it centers into the very middle of his chest, a boiling little ball of heat that finally— _finally_ —evaporates, and then it’s gone as quickly as it’d come.

He feels charred, burned all the way through, stiff like if he moves an inch he might just _break_.

He sways weakly on the spot, and his head feels like it’s a million pounds when he lifts it up, blinks exhaustedly up at the three blurred figures in front of him.

He’s tired, _so tired_ , and steam is still swirling up from his skin just a little, and his knees are buckling until he crumples to the wooden floor, body collapsing in on itself as he gives himself over to coaxing, loving darkness.

~~

This darkness is growing familiar with the way the shadows creep along the walls, determinedly snuffing out every bit of light that might try to worm its way in.

Jack blinks his eyes open but again, he can’t move. He watches as, across the room, Pitch coos to one of his night-mares. He strokes her muzzle lovingly and whispers things to her that Jack can’t hear. The night-mare stomps her hooves and lets out an obedient whinny; Pitch’s golden gaze finds Jack and the horse mirrors him, turning haunting, unsettling yellow eyes on Jack.

Pitch leads her over to where Jack lays immobile on a table. The horse looms over him, rears back onto her hind legs, an angry snort sounding out as she drops back down to all fours.

_“Good girl,"_ Pitch praises, and the night-mare snaps her jaw at Jack threatingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really kind of nervous about this chapter--is the fire scene okay? I just really hope I'm doing the OP's prompt justice <3


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